


Strawberry Wine

by LadyProto



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Final vi
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon Backstory, Country & Western, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, F/M, First Dance, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jukeboxes, Military, No Sex, Underage Drinking, themes of color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24683404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: In which Tifa teaches a man how to be a hero.((No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. Just two lonely people dancing by the honky tonk jukebox. Fluffiest thing I've ever written. No this is not underage romance, just give it a chance))
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife, Zack Fair & Tifa Lockhart, Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough, Zack Fair/Tifa Lockhart
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Strawberry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while my city was burning :D

I was eighteen when I first saw the power we commanded. 

The military ball at Junon shimmered with the kind of brightness that would have rivaled the sun. I stood in the receiving line alone, hoping that I could remember the names of my superiors as I was presented to them. General Heidegar. Director Tueseti. The young vice president Rufus Shinra -- all dressed in suits that cost more than my annual basic pay, and more than my dad had earned in his lifetime. 

Maybe that was the point -- to show off the prowess of a company who could out-pace and out-shine the natural order. A chandelier, new and noble, hung in a place of pride above the grandiose hallway. From underneath the artificial sun, I watched the light play off the silk of ladies’ dresses. Gold bands around throats, silver bent around fingers, diamonds the size of apples -- this gilded world was all that existed and we were the heroes that had made this happen. 

With my face upwards, I let the illumination of the chandelier wash over me. It was the kind of brightness that sears into your retinas; a brightness that would make fresh snow look grey and dull. I squinted into the center of the fake sun until the lights from the crystals turned fuzzy and my head swam with the idea of so much power.

Those thousands of shimmering crystals -- that's the power of Mako.

… and this is the destruction it has wrought. 

The Honky-Tonk jukebox struggles to accept another 10-gil piece as I take a drink, drowning out my thoughts while the old love ballad drowns out the din around me. It’s dark here. The bar is lit only by dusty neon signs that advertise cheap mass-produced drinks. I’m in another reactor town -- which means there's nothing else out here. If the locals are telling the truth, Nibelheim was a ranch town that was given up to dust when the reactor moved in. Like Gongaga and its wood crafts before it, like Junon and its fishery before that. Places seem to lose their purpose when Shinra moves in. Proud cultures splintered into blacktop white trash. 

I hear the rowdy jeers of the drunken men behind me, which means another pretty girl has walked into the bar. I wonder what Angeal would do... Would he tell the men to treat her like a lady? Would he turn and offer the girl a seat? It doesn't matter, because I do neither. So much for heroes and honor. 

I think I can hear the cowboy boots approach from my right. I don’t turn and I hate myself for it. I don’t like this new world, where I’m so tired that I consider another person a burden. I keep my eyes focused on the cloudy water marks on the bartop, even as the girl speaks. 

“Hey, I thought I might find you here.” 

“Uhhh-,” Oh man, what am I supposed to do here? A kid? It’s that weird girl from earlier, but she’s changed from her tourist-trap getup into skin tight jeans. She hides her crop top under a half-zipped varsity hoodie that’s two sizes too big. She’s pulled down the sleeves to cover her hands, but I can still see the black X’s indicating her age to a would-be suiter trying to buy her a drink. I quickly avert my eyes before they reach her face. 

“I wanted to say I”m sorry. You know, about earlier? I asked too many questions about SOLDIER.” She starts to reach for my bicep.

I roll my shoulders and wave off her hand. “Nah, I’ve gotten weirder questions.”

“I’ll bet.” She hooks her boot on the footrest of the barstool towards my right. She doesn’t know -- care? -- that i'm in the midst of self pity. She's going to sit here, isn’t she? I don’t understand. Why is she here? Girls go flirt with the First Class like Genesis, or Angeal or --

Oh.

I feel several moments older when I realize this. I celebrated when Kunsel gave me the designation, and yet this is the first I’ve said my name and rank together. I’m First Class, Zachary Fair. I’m SOLDIER, First Class for a reason. Hero of children, protector of the peace, and all that lovely prose. Seems like yesterday that I was the grunt left behind in the hotel, like that Cloud kid, just staring at the ceiling and listening for the First Class to come back from a night on the town. 

I miss hearing Sephiroth stifling his laugh. I miss Angeal setting this heavy blade against the wall before they forced Genesis to close his book for the night. I miss when the world had  _ heroes _ . 

I decide to focus on the blue neon light of the  _ Banora Cider _ sign instead of the bitter taste of days past... If I really focus, I can feel the static shorting bulb in my bloodstream. I try to remember the artificial sun, and brightness without heat. It’s cold -- the power Shinra commands. Mako. It's the reason I’m here in this backwater town. I’m a backwater expert. A country boy.

There’s a deep sigh to the barstool to the right of me. The girl sits outside of the frosted teal light. I’d almost forgotten her. “It’s just -- I was expecting someone else when you walked through the gates. I was hoping maybe I would find him here.”

I raise my two fingers hesitantly. The barkeep slides me another glass jar of something dark and stormy. Does anyone from this town know anything but pure ethanol and lamentations? I have nothing to offer this girl. A hero would, but me? The numbness of the last few days gives way to guilt. I put my head towards the ceiling once again, studying the rickety trusses. My dad was a carpenter. Those trusses are weak. I’m pretty sure they aren’t braced properly - but leaving home at thirteen didn’t give me a chance to learn more than the basics. I know enough to build a few things. Like that cart for the flower girl. With my skills, that thing is going to break soon… I was never very good at anything. I hope I can make her a better one some day. 

“Bad time? I’m sorry. I should go --”

If Aerith or Angeal or any of those that I have crossed paths with could give me a lesson, the lesson would be this: there is no story not worth listening to. I put the mostly full drink back on the counter. I catch the girl as she hops down from the elevated seat. “No, wait. It’s Tifa, right?”

From the tensing of her arm, I think she’s going to hit me. But she accepts my grip on her wrist. She turns on her heels and she’s more lovely than I could have imagined. Her eyes are the color of sangria. “You remembered!” She pushes a strand of her long black hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are flushed, from embarrassment, or alcohol, I can’t tell. It shouldn’t be the latter -- but for all I know, maybe the legal drinking age is 16 in a small hick town like this one. I’ve done my time in the country. It’s not hard to show a fake ID to a nearly blind old man at the door. Poor dumb out-of-work farmer, just another shell that the reactor’s created- 

No, what has Angeal's death -- defection-- done to me? What the hell is wrong with me?

If she’s repelled by my aloofness she doesn’t show it. “You remembered…” Tifa repeats as she squints up at me like a cat showing her contentment at the scrap of attention I’ve fed her. Maybe this is what affection means to her. 

“Yeah, can’t forget a cute face.” For the first time in my life I have to mentally prepare myself to smile at someone. I just look her over, trying to discern her age. Her face is young, and I try to focus on that even as she pushes her chest against my arm. She’s what, 15? 16? I nod towards the barstool next to me. “Stood up?”

“Not exactly—,“ The smile she gives me is a killer. All juvenile pink lip gloss turned up at one side. Her body radiates a type of heat as she climbs back on her barstool. I notice her freshly painted red fingertips as she playfully reaches for my mason jar full of whiskey. 

I let her take a drink -- but only a drink -- before I take the glass from her. “Looks like his loss.”

I feel her eyes sweep up and down my torso. I’m used to this kind of inspection. I mentally go over all the ways my uniform is out of regulation. My hair has gotten longer, but I guess now that I’m First Class, I don’t need to worry about rules like that. Seems like very little matters at this point in my career. My pants are creased and baggy. The dark circles under my eyes make me look like shit. She’s sizing me up like she wants to jump me, or hug me, or something else that would make us entirely too close. 

I take a drink, turning the glass in my hand. The imprint of her lips is sticky against the mason jar. It smells like strawberries and honey whiskey. Something altogether warm, red and sultry. I drink it faster than I should. It’s her turn to take the drink from me. I think she might be worried, because she finishes it off and turns the glass upside down, effectively cutting me off for the night. “Do you dance?”

“H-huh?” The several long swigs of alcohol have knocked the breath out of my lungs. 

“Is it true that SOLDIERS know how to dance?” Her cherry cheeks deflect the cool light of the  _ Banora Cider _ sign. “I mean — that guy’s letter said--”

For a moment I remember the time before, at that ball filled with the cold impersonal shine of thousands of crystals, powered by thousands of lost lives. I think I learned a few basic steps from Genesis... Or was it Sephiroth? A basic box step to not make a total fool of myself if I had the honor of entertaining a young Scarlet from the weapons development and her immense appetite for the younger infantrymen. But all SOLDIERS? I wonder what this guy has told her. I wonder if he was a SOLDIER that didn’t make it through the war. Maybe I know the kid. Maybe it’s the infantryman that the Cloud kid replaced. “What was his--”

Before I respond, her face falls. “It doesn’t matter.” Her voice quivers at every word. Her shoulders slump, and as she falls into herself. I see the frosted glow of the cooperate sign illuminate the hollows of her cheek. “It seems like he may have lied about a lot actually.” The fire inside of her wine-colored eyes starts to dampen. 

I can’t let this happen. I won’t. “Do you want to dance?” The sounds tumble out of my mouth as if one word. Midgar. This town. My life -- everything in this fucking world could go cold, and I wouldn’t give a damn. But right now, right here, I just can't let the warmth go out of her eyes. I stand up and put myself between the coldness of the mako light and the rapidly dwindling warmth of this sixteen year old girl. I am not this world’s hero. I will never be. But maybe, just maybe….

“Huh?” She looks at me like I’ve insisted it's impossible.

“Do you want to dance?” I repeat. “With me. Would you dance with me?” 

Tifa looks away quickly nodding furiously even as a strawberry pink blush creeps up her cheeks. I slide my hand over hers, caressing the hot smooth metal of her class ring. She doesn’t tense away or try to punch me this time, even as I take the lead towards the worn plank dance floor. The jukebox starts to play an old country love ballad, and the singer’s southern accent tells us about her first taste of bittersweet love. 

If Junon was the artificial sun, then this Nibelheim honky tonk is the manufactured hot July moon. The small slivers of the neon lights barely cut through the dimness, but I feel drops of sweat bead up on my temple. It's been years since I’ve danced, and the SOLDIER honor in me makes me count the steps as if I am a consumable product. Be perfect. Be honorable. Protect your SOLDIER honor. 1-2-3-4. 1-and-2-and-

But maybe that's not what being a hero means. Tifa flutters her eyelashes up at me, half-drunk but all smiles. Our eyes meet. Blue and red. Cold and hot. We spin, and the trusses in the ceiling spin with us. There’s no showy crystals, or noble chandelier. There’s no Shrina logo to cast a shadow on either of our faces. This is somehow where my box step belongs: somewhere between an old jukebox and my dumb half-intoxicated self, just whiskey and the warmest strawberry girl in my arms.

My heart shudders with the shorting light bulbs. I miss a step and she trips over my boots. “I- sorry.” She turns away quickly.

“No. You’re perfect.” I touch her cheek. I don’t think we’re moving, but I am so light that it doesn’t matter now. Fuck honor for others. Maybe she’s the reason I’m doing this. Not Tifa specifically, but people like her. Her hand peeks out from her varsity jacket, and grips tightly onto me. I hold her back, tighter than I’ve held on to anyone before. Is this what it means to be a hero? Is it as simple as this box-step dance? Is it anything as long as it gives someone hope?

Those wine colored eyes. Her warm hands resting softly on my neck. For the briefest of moments I feel like we were meant to meet, and will meet again in some space or time. Maybe back in Gongaga or maybe we’ll find some shady motel under the plate where we can spend our nights with our hearts on our sleeves and our clothes on the floor. I wonder if anyone would miss us if we ran away right now, while we smell of whiskey and heartaches.

… but this isn’t a story that ends that way.

TIfa brings both of her hands to my cheeks. I think she intends to kiss me, but I quickly turn my head. She’s a kid. I’m a SOLDIER. I take her hands in mine and hold her tightly. “Tifa.. I think it’s time you go home.”

The song fades, and she backs away. I wonder how many SOLDIERS and tourists she’s kissed. I wonder if she’ll ever find the kid who wrote her those letters. I don’t think it matters right now because she smiles, a true and deep smile that’s almost too big for her face. “Maybe you’re right.” She concedes. 

Tifa studies my face, committing it to memory. I do the same, trying to take in the features of this 15 year old kid that made me her personal hero. Her cherry cheeks. Her strawberry lips. Her honey skin and the taste of the cheap whiskey... I don’t know why I was trusted. I don’t know how to keep this covenant. But all I know is that I will be her hero. “Thank you,” She whispers into my ear. I shudder from her heat. “You kept me company tonight.”

She pulls away from me. “No, Tifa -,” Her fingers trail down my arm, down towards my wrist. Our fingers touch for the last few seconds, our sparks light up the space between us. “Thank  _ you _ .”

In the moment before she fades away, I see her tilt her head to the side. “For what?”

“For showing me how to be a hero.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now that I’m done with this diabetic sweetness, let's go on to Jeffrey Dahmer. I'm ready for some cannibal KH, yall.


End file.
